


Focal Point, Or How Kaylie Became A Shorthalt

by Crewe



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Character Study, Family, Fluff and Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 04:24:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13263624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crewe/pseuds/Crewe
Summary: focal point (n.): the point at which, as an object approaches a curved mirror, its reflection becomes clearOver the course of three cities, one dragon attack, approximately eight flute battles, and two encounters with the man himself, Kaylie changes her mind about Scanlan Shorthalt.





	Focal Point, Or How Kaylie Became A Shorthalt

Here are a few of the things that Kaylie hates: Scanlan Shorthalt, a dearth of alcohol, Zedd’s snores, and The Treble Chef.

 

Ever since she met Dr. Dranzel--the same Dr. Dranzel that passed through Kymal all those years ago, who her mother told her stories about ( _he was a great big beast of a man, Kaylie, and a right scoundrel but a gentleman too, but I never gave him a second look after I saw... well_ )--the man hasn’t shut up about this damn tavern, some magical place where bards travel long distances to talk and play and exchange news and stories with the greatest performers on the continent. It’s apparently so far out of the way you won’t find it unless you know where it is, and you won’t know where it is unless you’ve either been there or been told--and only the best are told.

 

Dranzel insists he’s been there, a few times, or maybe just once or twice, _okay, it was just once, but it was the damn finest night of my life, you hear_ \--

 

The rest of the troupe is not convinced the place even exists.

 

Kaylie joined Dr. Dranzel’s Spectacular Traveling Troupe as a means to an end: to lead her to Scanlan Shorthalt, so she can finally exact her revenge. She never intended to find herself _liking_ the troupe, or considering staying on with them after her mission is complete (if they’ll allow her to after she’s killed their old friend, that is). They crept up on her, and despite herself she feels a great amount of affection for the Doctor and his motley crew.

 

But she swears to every god out there, if he tells _one more story_ about this stupid tavern tonight, she’s going to kill him, too.

 

“And I tell ya, I tell ya, _nobody_ makes a better mug of ale than ol’ Rosie. The woman must have some sorcery, some--some beer sorcery, but nothing else compares. Especially not this _swill_!” Dranzel punctuates his rant by slamming his mug down on the table. The other nearby patrons of the Diamond Nest tavern glance over at him and mutter, but go back to their drinks. Kaylie resists the urge to drop her head on the table, or possibly hit him.

 

He’s a little drunk, even though they’re on the job tonight. He always gets a little drunk when they come to Emon; Kaylie wonders if it has something to do with the keep they pass on the way in. She also wonders if that’s assuming too much sentiment of the old man.

 

“Dr. Dranzel,” Esilmere says in her delicate way, pursing her lips and carefully edging the elegant long sleeve of her dress away from the puddle of liquid he managed to slop out of his cup. “While we all appreciate your stories--”

 

“That’s one word for it,” Kent mutters. “Other words include ‘barely tolerate’ and ‘completely loathe.’”

 

Esilmere shoots a glare at him, though Zedd laughs into his own drink. She sighs and turns back to Dranzel, who is barely listening.

 

“Doctor,” she begins again, “as wonderful as your stories are, seeing as we are in another tavern right now, and this perfectly lovely establishment is _paying_ us this evening, perhaps we should refrain from…”

 

She pauses, and Kaylie joins in with, “Calling the house ale ‘swill’?”

 

Esilmere nods, gratified, but Kaylie keeps going, waving her hand. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it sucks, but alcohol is alcohol. I’ll take what I can get.”

 

Dranzel laughs, raising his mug. “Well, I’ll drink to that! Someday I’ll show you lot what a real drink tastes like.”

 

“He’s been telling us that for four years,” Kent pretends to whisper in Kaylie’s ear, making no effort at all to lower his voice.

 

Dranzel grumbles and waves his mug around like a weapon, barely avoiding Esilmere’s face as she hastily ducks away. “All right, all right, that’s enough, you lousy ingrates. I pull you all from obscurity, and this is the thanks I get! Get your asses on stage already.”

 

“Sure thing, boss. Anything to avoid hearing more about that fantasy tavern of yours.” Kent ducks away from the table with a wink and grabs his fiddle from under the bench, pounding his fist against Zedd’s back as he goes. The big drummer reluctantly draws away with a last mournful look at his mug before following the halfling to the front of the stage. Esilmere stands, brushes off her dress, and glides after them--always the picture of elegance (or at least she’d like to think so) despite her surroundings.

 

Dranzel gives Kaylie a mournful look. “At least you believe me, eh, Kaylie?”

 

Kaylie raises an eyebrow. “I believe you’re mad as a hatter and invented the Treble Clef just to annoy the living daylights out of us, but yeah, I believe the ale here sucks.”

 

He scowls and waves a hand at her. “Bah. Go on, you hateful little mongrel. Make me some money.”

 

With a wink and a laugh, Kaylie grabs her flute and saunters over to the stage where Zedd is finishing setting up his drums. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Dranzel heaving himself to his feet, plopping on his cap, and picking up his fiddle.

 

She grins at the crowd, taking in mostly sullen faces and dirty clothes. She sees the slight flicker of movement that means Samson is at work.

 

She hates plenty of things, and she may have gotten into it for ulterior motives, but she does love her job.

 

At Dranzel’s signal, she raises her flute and starts to play.

 

\--

 

Kaylie almost misses them when they come in, caught up in the music and barely able to see above the crowd. It’s the goliath that draws her eye, head and shoulders above the rest of the patronage, tattoos standing out dark against his pale skin and a grinning animal skull tied to one shoulder. Her interest piqued, she cranes her neck to see the rest of the newcomers, spotting antlers that for one heart-stopping moment she thinks are actually growing from the flame-haired woman’s head, a shock of white hair and a cloak. She has just enough time to think _adventuring party_ before suddenly a gnome is being kicked out of the crowd and stumbles towards them.

 

The long habit of a career as an entertainer ( _and swindler_ ) has her grinning and winking at the stranger, raising one eyebrow. It’s not the first time another bard has jumped in on a performance; Dranzel has lots of old friends, and more than one person has hopped in to try to impress Kaylie. It’s easy enough to string them along and steal their coin purses while they’re distracted making fools of themselves.

 

And then Dr. Dranzel roars out, over Esilmere’s singing and the bustle of the tavern patrons, “Scanlan Shorthalt!”

 

And Kaylie freezes.

 

\--

 

That was the first night.

 

Their time in Emon passes at first terribly quickly and then not nearly quickly enough, and Kaylie comes out of it feeling raw and scraped empty and barely trusting the very ground beneath her feet.

 

She can’t tell if the rest of the troupe is genuinely clueless or just giving her space, and hardly trusts herself to judge others’ intentions at the moment, so she puts on her usual charm and plays her usual songs and listens to all the usual stories, and things settle into a blessedly normal rhythm.

 

Dranzel, true to form, will not shut up about his ridiculous tavern, even in the face of the troupe’s continued skepticism.

 

He insists he’s been there a few times. Well, once or twice. _Well_ , one time, but it was the greatest night of his life.

He likes to wax poetic about it during long nights on the road, when they’re in between towns and camped out around their fire and eating what meager fare travels well. He dedicates soliloquies to the owner’s venison stew and four-layer cake. He speaks fervently about whole rooms filled with every instrument you can imagine in all sizes, ready to be pulled out on request, about bards traveling from far and wide to meet and boast and exchange stories. He goes on well into the evening, until Zedd’s snores (and the jibes from the rest of the troupe) finally drown him out.

Sometimes, Kaylie wonders if he told the same stories to Scanlan.

At first, when she’d first joined the troupe, the thought upset her--she didn’t want to think of _Scanlan Shorthalt_ , the scoundrel who abandoned her mother without so much as a by-your-leave or ever bothering to stop by and see if, oh, say, she had a _child_ , as sitting around the fire laughing at the same jokes, rolling his eyes at the same (somehow word-for-word no matter how many times he told it) description of the house ale. It brought him too close to her; she didn’t want to see any of him in her or her in him, didn’t want to see him as a person who might have made the same snide comments to the drummer as she did.

After Emon, however, after meeting the man himself and speaking to him ( _after threatening his life and failing, failing to keep her promise to herself and her mother—)_ , she feels… conflicted. She tries to imagine Scanlan around the campfire more and more, tries to see him as part of the troupe and maybe _know_ him more, because for all the rage that has been boiling inside her her entire life, threatening to spill over at the first sight of the man is starting to subside, leaving confusion in its wake, and for all she’s starting to see him as less as _Scanlan Shorthalt, the villain_ , she still knows nothing about Scanlan Shorthalt, the man.

Did he sing as they walked? Did he flirt with the troupe? ( _She knows damn well he flirted with everyone outside of it._ ) Did he help cook? Did he give coin to the beggars they passed on the road?

He wasn’t what she expected him to be when they finally met. She doesn’t know what to think anymore.

She asks the troupe about him, offhandedly, when they’re bored and looking for ways to pass the time-- _hey, got any Shorthalt stories? He seems like quite the guy._ They don’t question it; in many places, stories of Vox Machina--and Scanlan among them--have begun to spread, and members of Dr. Dranzel’s Spectacular Travelling Troupe are quick to boast that _they_ know the bard, that _they_ played with him (many a claim of _taught him everything he knows, I did_ are flung about. After going head-to-head with him, Kaylie is skeptical). And after spending the night in Vox Machina’s keep, it’s easy enough to pass it off as simple fascination--especially when young Samson seems just as eager to listen.

So Kaylie hears stories of wild escapades, at least three-fourths of them drunken, of incredible feats of musical prowess that despite plenty of cross-examination she can’t seem to discredit, of sly wit and jealous lovers ( _those still make her twitch_ ) and outright buffoonery. With each story, the (albeit sometimes grudging) fondness in the eyes and voices of her compatriots leads her to believe that yes, maybe she was right not to kill Scanlan that night. He still seems like an ass and a half ( _and that’s putting it lightly_ ), and frankly she still doesn’t _like_ him very much, but perhaps he’s not the heartless monster she vowed revenge on.

 

She has to think about it.

 

\--

 

And then the dragons attack.

 

They’re on the road when it happens, fortunately for them, on their way to Westruun. But they can see the fire on the horizon, and it’s not long after that the black dragon swoops by overhead.

 

They don’t get to Westruun until after he’s done with it.

 

They enter a city that seems more like a ghost town; nobody out on the streets but looters and opportunists, who fortunately take one look at Dranzel’s sneer and don’t bother.

 

Dranzel cracks a joke about their gig being cancelled. Kaylie snorts and fingers the knife at her hip. A cursory check finds the inns closed; the troupe finds a temple ( _partially collapsed, but open and willing_ ) to take them in and spend a night staring at each other, trying to decide what to do next.

 

Samson almost cries, staring wide-eyed at the adults proclaiming doom. Kaylie nonchalantly flings an arm around his shoulder and sings out, “I bet I know where you’d rather be right now, Doctor.”

 

Dranzel meets her eyes, glances at the kid, and breaks out into a broad grin. “Damn right! And you know no little thing like a dragon attack would make the Treble Chef shut down! I ever tell you lot about the owner? She could beat any dragon with one hand behind her back, ol’ Rosie could!”

 

The whole troupe groans and Kaylie smiles and squeezes Samson.

 

They haven’t moved on before the goliaths come, and it quickly becomes apparent that they’ve missed their window. More people trickle into the temple as they’re turned out by the herd as they take over. Kaylie makes herself invisible and sneaks into the center of town to see them execute the head of the city.

 

She throws up in an alley on her way back and makes sure she’s no longer pale by the time she gets there and takes Dr. Dranzel aside.

 

“Someone’s got to do something,” she tells him, one hand on her knife and an intent look on her face.

 

Dranzel puts one large hand on her shoulder and nods gravely. “Someone will.”

 

They learn that there are four dragons in all.

 

No one likes to talk about the fact that four chromatic dragons should most certainly not be working together. That’s something to leave to the _someones_ , the big people who will figure out the hows and whys and what to do to take the dragons down.

 

They have other things to worry about, the little people down here in the streets.

 

They help the clerics protect and hide the refugees that come to them, and even smuggle some out of the city, sending them along with escorts from the troupe to Kymal. They hold their breath and each other on the days they hear the dragon’s wing beats overhead and pray the herd adequately appeased it. They keep quiet and hidden and every night they sit and wonder what’s happening in the rest of Tal’Dorei.

 

One night, sitting with Dr. Dranzel after helping to ration out what little food they have to the people, Kaylie drums her fingers against her leg and asks, without looking at him, “Do you think they made it out of Emon?”

 

Dranzel cocks his head. “Who?”

 

She shrugs one shoulder.  “That band of crazy adventurers we sent to the old general’s house. Y’know, the one Shorthalt hangs out with? What do they call themselves… Vox Machina?” Kaylie glances at him. “You think they’re dead?”

 

He goes quiet for a moment, then barks out a laugh. “Well, if they’re not, I’m sure they’re out stirring up trouble, if I know Scanlan Shorthalt.”

 

Kaylie snorts. “He’s a real piece of work, ain’t he?”

 

Dranzel chuckles and claps her on the back, nearly bowling her over. “Aye, that he is! Maybe that lot’ll come take care of these goliaths while they’re at it. Since they’re these big heroes and all.” He laughs, like the idea is funny. Kaylie chuckles with him, a slight twist to her mouth, and lets him change the subject.

 

The next day, bells start ringing.

 

There’s no way in any of the nine hells that _that’s_ a good sign, so they barricade the temple door and Kaylie and Dranzel stand in front of the battered refugees to wait.

 

They hear a faint _pop_ and Kaylie puts herself in front of the few children, but she can’t quite see what it is with Dr. Dranzel standing between them like that, until he laughs and looks at her over his shoulder with a twinkle in his eye and steps to the side and--

 

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

 

Scanlan Shorthalt has just walked back into her life, literally out of thin air.

 

He’s out of breath and frazzled and Kaylie wouldn’t say she’s _glad_ to see him (especially when he’s in the process of bringing the goliaths down on their heads), but she _is_ glad he’s not dead or even really mauled at all, and she wants to help the people here so when he turns to her with wide eyes and gently asks for her help, she agrees.

 

Things move very quickly. Scanlan is like a whirlwind, going from helpless to mastermind in moments. He talks so fast and looks at her with bright eyes like he’s _excited_ ( _adventurers are all insane_ , Kaylie decides, but her pulse is racing too) and talks to her so sweetly and earnestly as he coaches her through his plan, she finds herself swept up in it. She grins back at him and embellishes his words ( _and preens, just a little, at his praise_ ) and when it’s done and they’ve scared off the threats ( _for the moment_ ) and gotten his friends’ plan back on track, she doesn’t disagree when Dr. Dranzel laughs and says they make a good team, or even when her father ( _her father, this man is her father_ ) meets her gaze and agrees.

 

It’s… too much. Kaylie has spent too much time hating Scanlan to be pulled in like this. She takes a step back and crosses her arms defensively as he starts outlining his plan to get them to the sewers, and snaps at him when he asks if she can defend herself.

 

She doesn’t like the implication that she needs him. She might… in the future, she might make room in her life for Scanlan Shorthalt ( _and even that thought surprises her, like she’s not quite sure when she came to that conclusion_ ). But she doesn’t _need_ him. He tries to placate her and she brushes him off, and when he reminds her that he can’t _hate_ away him being her father she reminds him that she can damn well try.

 

That bright moment of connection is gone. There are more important things to do now. She adjusts her voice to match the half-orc disguise conjured by Scanlan ( _and pretends not to notice the proud gleam in his eye at her mimicry_ ) and leads the way out of the temple.

 

The short walk to the sewer entrance is… heart-pounding. They’ve spent so much time in the temple lately that she feels exposed out here, and she spends as much time with her head on a swivel looking for wandering herd members as she does navigating.

 

Her heart almost stops when they do show up, and she turns to look at Scanlan because _this was his plan, dammit, do something_ \--and he does. Well--sort of. He blusters at them and Kaylie honestly can’t believe they’re buying it ( _an undead gnome? Really, Scanlan?_ ), but eventually the goliath sends them on their way--with a tail.

 

Well. They’ll figure that out in a minute, because the entrance to the sewer is right there, and Kaylie urges them on faster. Dr. Dranzel pulls the grate off easily with a grin, and Kaylie starts ushering people down into the tunnel as fast as she can, meeting their wide and worried eyes with a forced, hopefully-reassuring smile.

 

And then their tail catches up to them. Scanlan steps forward to distract him as Kaylie and Dranzel get the last of the peasants into the sewer. She turns around just in time to see Scanlan casting some kind of spell--and failing.

 

_Fuckin’ figures._

 

Before he can get away, Kaylie flings an arm out and mutters under her breath, feeling the familiar tingle of magic in her fingertips as the old man faceplants into the ground, snoring. She darts over to grab him and drag him back into the shadows of the alleyway so no one will notice. She begrudgingly lets Scanlan take over when he reminds her that he doesn’t know the sewers and hops down after the peasants.

 

“Right, let’s go,” she says, moving past them to take the lead. “Come on now, quietly, stay with me.”

 

She winces slightly when she finally hears the clang of Dranzel replacing the grate, but reminds herself that the only one around to hear is fast asleep--which reminds her that they need to get out _now_ , before he wakes up and brings the herd down on them.

 

She looks over her shoulder, intending to motion to Dranzel to _hurry up_ , but freezes when she notices--he’s alone. He must notice something in her expression, because he raises an eyebrow as he motions for her to keep moving.

 

“Where’s Scanlan?” she asks, keeping her voice to a low hiss.

 

Dranzel picks his way through the group of people and puts a hand on her shoulder, maneuvering her around and pushing her forward. “He’s staying behind,” he says in a low rumble.

 

Kaylie stops short, shrugging him off. “He’s _what_?”

 

He motions for her to keep her voice down and glances back at the people. “He’s staying in Westruun.”

 

“He could _die_ ! Did he miss all the goliaths roaming about, looking for him _specifically_?”

 

“Well I doubt he managed that,” Dranzel says, then holds up a hand in a placating gesture at Kaylie’s glare. “All right, all right. Kaylie, he’ll be fine. He’s got his friends to back him up, remember? Besides, I’m not sure the concept of death fully applies to the likes of Scanlan Shorthalt.”

 

When Kaylie doesn’t move immediately, Dranzel puts his hand on her shoulder again, more gently, and murmurs (as quietly as a half-orc can to a gnome), “And if we don’t want us and all these people to die, we need to get out of the city.”

 

That does it. Kaylie looks back at the peasants and gives herself a mental shake. “Right,” she says, then motions to them. “Follow me. We’re getting out of this fuckin’ place.”

 

\--

 

The trip through the sewers is tense but mostly uneventful, the terse silence broken only when Dr. Dranzel steps on a sharp bit of metal and curses loud enough that the whole group freezes in place for a moment, expecting a horde of goliaths to immediately descend upon them despite the nearest entrance to the sewer being several blocks away.

 

Kaylie swats his knee and gets a sheepish (well, for a half-orc) smile in response, and one of the older peasants helps him limp the rest of the way.

 

Their disguises last the rest of the day, making sneaking out past the farm patrols considerably easier, and they make it a good way towards Kymal before they stop to rest.

 

Kaylie and a few of the more able-bodied refugees build a fire, and they even manage to catch a few of the large rabbits that inhabit the plain with the handy application of magic. By the time their disguises wear off, the lot of them have settled as comfortably as could reasonably be expected given the circumstances.

 

Kaylie settles down next to Dr. Dranzel as he examines his foot, a rueful look on his face.

 

“It’s gonna get infected, what with all the walking through sewage you did on it,” she remarks, gesturing with a stick full of rabbit.

 

He grimaces and waves it aside. “I’m afraid you might be right. Ah, well, it’ll still get my to Kymal. Hopefully they have some clerics about to give me a hand.”

“A foot, more like.”

 

Kaylie laughs at his withering glare, then settles down to chew on her rabbit in companionable silence. After a while of staring into the fire, her chewing slows, her brow furrows and her mouth slowly turns down.

 

She’s startled out of her reverie by a (relatively) gentle elbow to the side. She’s able to avoid falling over (used to much stronger and more drunken versions of the same move after innumerable nights spent in a tavern with the doctor) and looks up to see Dranzel looking down at her with a knowing smile.

 

Her frown immediately deepens. She has a sneaking suspicion of what he’s about to say, and she doesn’t like where this is going.

 

“He’s going to be fine, Kaylie.”

 

Yup.

 

Kaylie shrugs and looks away, tearing a chunk off of her rabbit. “I know,” she shoots back with her mouth full, carefully casual.

 

Dranzel drops a hand on her shoulder and Kaylie tries to shrug it off but can’t; damn half-orc and his giant meaty paws. “Kaylie.”

 

She turns and gives his hand a pointed look. “What.”

 

He squeezes her shoulder, gently. “He’s been doing this a long time, and he’s got all those other big-shot adventurers with him. He made it out of Emon, those pesky goliaths’ll be a breeze.”

 

Kaylie reaches up and physically shoves his hand off her shoulder. “I _know_ that,” she says, crossing her arms and scowling at the fire.

 

“Kaylie, I know you’re worried about him--”

 

“Why should I be, huh?” she snaps, turning to glare at Dranzel. Her sudden vitriol catches even herself a little off-guard, but she doesn’t care. She’s _angry_ , suddenly, Dranzel’s attempts at comfort bringing a day’s worth ( _weeks’ worth_ ) of internal conflict to a sudden head.

 

Dranzel looks caught off-guard, clearly not expecting that response. He backs off a bit, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Kaylie--”

 

“Why should I care what happens to him?” Kaylie barges right through his attempt to calm her down before he can even really begin. She feels hot and restless despite the cool night air and abruptly gets to her feet, dropping her mostly-eaten dinner at her feet and pacing back and forth in front of the fire, Dranzel’s eyes following her helplessly.

 

“He didn’t care about my mother when he promised her a life with him, then abandoned her without a second thought! He didn’t care about me when he never bothered to check to see if maybe I even _existed_ . Why should I care if he’s alive when he never did the same for _us_?”

 

Kaylie rounds on Dranzel, one eyebrow cocked as if challenging him to answer.

 

He shrugs, and says gently, “He’s your father.”

 

She scoffs. “He’s been my father my entire life, and I never cared about him before. I spent years of my life training so I could find him and make him _pay_ for what he did to my mother. So why should I care _now_? Why--”

 

Kaylie seems to deflate, dropping Dranzel’s gaze to scowl at her shoes. “Why didn’t I just kill him that night? Years of planning what I’d do if I finally met Scanlan Shorthalt and I didn’t--I couldn’t--I just want to know _why_.”

 

Kaylie hears a rustling and a muffled grunt of pain and then her vision is taken up by a wall of brightly colored cloth over green skin as Dr. Dranzel drops to one knee in front of her and lays his hand on her shoulder again. This time she allows it.

 

“It’s easy to hate someone you haven’t met,” he says gently.

 

Kaylie snorts. “I’ve met Scanlan Shorthalt, and he’s just about every bad thing I’ve ever heard or thought about him.”

 

Dranzel chuckles, a resonant rumble that always seems louder than it is. Kaylie’s always thought the best thing about the doctor is his laugh; the jovial, avuncular sound has eased a few of her darkest nights.

 

“Aye, that he is,” he says, a smile in his voice that Kaylie doesn’t look up to see. “But that’s not all he is, is it?”

 

Kaylie finally meets his gaze, and the bemused, annoyed look on her face makes him throw his head back and laugh.

 

She scowls out of spite. “I still hate him.”

 

Dranzel looks back at her, the corner of his lips still quirked up, and ruffles her hair, prompting an indignant squawk out of Kaylie. “Well, that’s all right. You can hate him and still want him to stay alive.”

 

She wrinkles her nose, shoving him off her. “I suppose if he died I wouldn’t be able to really shove his face in what an ass he is.”

 

“That’s the spirit!” Dranzel slaps her on the back (Kaylie sees it coming out of long practice and braces for it), then hefts himself to his feet with a groan. “Now help me to my bedroll before my damn foot falls off.”

 

Kaylie snorts and shoulders in under his arm. “Bah, you’re fine,” she says, but helps support him anyways on the short walk to the cluster of bedrolls, where the refugees are already asleep, exhausted from stress and hours of walking.

 

As he settles himself down, Dranzel raises an eyebrow at her, nodding at her still-erect stance. “Are you staying up, then?”

 

She shrugs. “Think I’ll keep watch for a while. Never know what could be waiting around here. I’ll wake you if I get tired.”

 

Dranzel huffs. “Don’t be in a hurry about it. G’night, Kaylie.”

 

“Good night, Doctor.”

 

Dranzel wraps himself in his bedroll and Kaylie returns to the dying fire, dropping down beside her abandoned dinner. She sits there for a long while, contemplating the embers, and eventually nods off without ever realizing she’s about to.

 

The next day they rowse early and continue walking, eating the remains of what they caught the night before on their feet. They move more slowly now that they’re away from Westruun and the fear of being caught by the goliath herd no longer outweighs the burden of their wounds and weariness. Dranzel blusters and waves off offers of assistance for a while, but by mid-morning he’s limping heavily and the refugees and Kaylie take turns helping him walk.

 

By late afternoon, they can see Kymal on the horizon, and Kaylie feels a pang of longing for the city where she grew up--she and her mother hadn’t lived quite in the city, but Kymal had been a landmark in her life for so long that she couldn’t help but associate it with the excitement and anticipation of adventure she’d felt when she’d first visited as a young girl by her mother’s side ( _well, mostly--she was always prone to running off to investigate new sights and sounds and smells, but she was always quick to return to her mother’s familiar presence_ ).

 

By reluctant agreement, they stop rather than push on; they’re still a long walk from the city, and it’s dangerous to travel in the dark, especially with so many wounded. They scavenge what food they can find, and the mood around their small fire is quiet but they pass fleeting hopeful smiles around their meagre meals. They’re almost to safety--or the closest they can get in a world besieged by dragons--for the first time in weeks.

 

When Dr. Dranzel bursts into his favorite stories about the Treble Chef, Kaylie barely offers the obligatory groan and eye-roll before letting it fade into comfortable background noise as she stares at the fire and dreams of home.

 

The next morning, they set out in high spirits and more energy than might be expected for such a ragged group. At one point, as the sun approaches noon, someone points out a tiny dark shape on the horizon. Kaylie ruffles a child’s hair and tells them it’s a bird. She silently counts the days and hopes she’s not lying.

 

Finally, exhausted and hungry and approaching evening, they arrive at Kymal.

 

More accurately, they make it to the refugee camp set up outside the city--tents instead of buildings and no protective wall, but after a few curious faces poke out of tents to investigate the sound of the arrival, they are given directions with weary and quiet smiles to a large tent where a matronly woman sits them down at a long table with other battered travelers and brings them steaming bowls of soup that Kaylie is sure would have been delicious if she’d bothered to pause in shoveling it down her gullet long enough to taste it.

 

They bid farewell to the refugees at the soup tent, the children giving Kaylie abrupt fleeting hugs as she and Dranzel bid them goodbye and good luck in finding any loved ones that might be waiting for them here. As they walk back out onto what passes for the main thoroughfare here, thanking the woman as they go for the meal and receiving a solemn nod in response, Dranzel pats Kaylie’s arm where he’s leaning on her for support.

 

“We’ll find somewhere to rest for the night, and tomorrow we’ll go find the rest of the troupe.”

 

Kaylie nods wordlessly, looking back towards Westruun. Dranzel pats her arm again, and the two of them set off to find an empty spot of land to lay their bedrolls.

 

They both sleep late, feeling somewhat secure for the first time in weeks surrounded by people in the comforting shadow of Kymal’s wall. By the time they rise, the sun is high in the sky and the roads are full of people milling about; some moving with purpose through the streets, many clearly searching for loved ones;  others look aimless, wandering about with a dazed look in their eyes. Every so often a group in the uniform of the Kymal guard passes through. The air is thick with the scent and sounds of too many people in not enough space. Despite her sore feet and the dejected look of many of the people around her, Kaylie feels better than she has in weeks; she’s much more in her element amongst people than in nature. She’s often found it exceedingly difficult to charm nature into doing what she wants.

 

Still, as she looks to the northeast, she feels an uneasiness lurking in the back of her mind. She wonders if Scanlan and his friends got out before the dragon came. She wonders, if they didn’t, if it was on purpose.

 

She turns away.

 

\--

 

Dr. Dranzel’s foot is worse. It’s clearly infected, river water and dirty bandages not doing enough to stop the area around the wound becoming something rather gruesome to behold. They both regard it in grim silence for a few moments before agreeing to put finding some manner of medic on the to-do list.

 

After a brief discussion (and much gesturing towards said disgusting foot), Dranzel agrees to stay with their belongings and see if he can get any money to work with by playing for the passersby. Neither have high hopes of actually pulling much in (or any desire to swindle starving people out of food money), but both agree that he probably shouldn’t be walking around until they can least find him some crutches or something, and he might as well play while we waits. Besides, some of the guards might take pity on a wounded half-orc, and they _could_ use any extra coin, especially now that they’ve got a medic to pay.

 

That settled, Kaylie sets off into the tent city to find a doctor for the doctor ( _she chuckles to herself about it for at least five minutes after the thought occurs to her_ ) and the rest of their troupe, who are hopefully somewhere in the refugee camp and not the much larger city itself.

 

After only a few minutes of walking, Kaylie has realized this is going to take longer than she anticipated; there are a _lot_ of people here, and not much organization to speak of. She spends the rest of her morning wandering the foot-trodden paths between tents, directing anyone with lost and travel-weary looks about them to the same tent they were sent to, and asking anyone who looks like they’ve been here a while about healers and the troupe.

 

She learns that a) healers, both magical and mundane, are in high demand in the camp and thus difficult to gain access to without an emergency, and b) it’s going to take a hell of a lot of walking to find the troupe, neither of which are particularly surprising.

 

Nevertheless, she uses a bit of coin to buy some overripe fruit from a very grateful man who was probably a displaced farmer and continues her search.

 

By the time she makes her way back to Dranzel, the sun is beginning to set and she’s determined that neither the troupe nor an available healer are anywhere in their immediate vicinity.

 

For his part, Dranzel has collected some paltry offerings of mainly copper, but is in high spirits after a chance to play for fresh ears and even secured food in the form of shares of the chicken a family staying nearby had cooked, as payment for the performance in place of money. The two chat companionably over their food and perform together for their neighbors as the sun sets and when at least they lay down in their bedrolls and look up at the moon, they talk about what to do next.

 

“We could leave the continent, go somewhere without dragons,” Kaylie offers, even though it feels like giving up and she’s never given up a day in her life when she could help it. They’re not the ones who are going to beat the dragons and she knows it.

 

“I hear Marquet’s nice this time of year,” Dranzel offers, raising one arm to wave back and forth as punctuation. “Lots of people there. Good food, good music. Bet people would pay extra for the novelty of ours.”

 

“I hear they’re tough on stealing out in Marquet.”

 

Dranzel snorts. “Bah, in Ank’Harel, sure, but there’re plenty of other places we could go. I mean, I’ve never been there, but they definitely exist.”

 

“Well, forget Marquet for a minute. Where else can we go without running into a dragon?”

 

“You know where I’d like to go,” Dranzel begins, and Kaylie groans dramatically because she recognizes that inflection and now she doesn’t even have other people to share her pain with.

 

“The Treble Chef,” they say in unison, Dranzel laughing and Kaylie groaning again.

 

“Are you ever going to give up on that, doctor?” she asks, tilting her head back to look at him. “You know I trained at the College of the White Duke for three years, and I never heard word of this mythical tavern of bards.”

 

Dranzel scoffs. “Bah! You expect those hoity-toity _scholar_ bards to know about the Treble Chef? No offense, of course, but they don’t know any of the best stories. Those you learn from being out in the world, seeing and hearing and getting the right people drunk.” He raises a hand over his head to jab a finger at her without looking. “I’ll bring you lot one day, and you’ll apologise for ever doubting me.”

 

“Well. I suppose we’ll see, won’t we?”

 

They lapse into silence, and Kaylie looks up at the stars, a small smile on her lips. For now, she’s content to trade banter with Dranzel instead of real plans; they need to figure out what to do next, but the future is so uncertain now that it’s easier to argue the dubious reality of certain taverns than the hypothetical whereabouts of ancient dragons.

 

After a while, she says, “Do you think they’ll stay in Tal’Dorei, or keep going?”

 

When there’s no reply, she adds, “Doctor?” then flips over onto her stomach and looks across the remains of their fire to see Dranzel, slack-jawed and already beginning to snore. With a rueful smile, Kaylie turns back over and draws her blanket more snugly around her shoulders.

 

Well. They can worry about it tomorrow.

 

\--

 

The next day passes similarly; Dranzel stays behind to play again. His foot is turning worrisomely green ( _well, greener than usual_ ), and Kaylie stares at it solemnly until Dranzel jokes that maybe soon it’ll qualify as enough of an emergency to get him in to see a healer. She punches his shoulder and leaves in a huff.

 

This time, aside from looking for the troupe and a medic, she asks after the dragons. The refugee camp is full of people not only from Westruun but all over Tal’Dorei; she learns, by piecing together accounts from all over, that the red dragon remains in Emon, the white dragon flew north, and no one has seen so much as a scale of the green one since the initial attack, and its whereabouts are the most popular topic of speculation amongst people looking to commiserate.

 

By the time the sun begins to set and she returns to Dr. Dranzel, Kaylie has amassed plenty of gossip, a few burgeoning friendships with people that seem to be taking leadership roles in the camp, rumors of an impromptu dance on the other end of the camp started by a ragtag band of bards, and a lead on a recently-arrived cleric that is probably staying close by and isn’t yet swamped with pleas for help by other sick and injured refugees.

 

Dranzel has once again earned them a meal with his playing, and greets her cheerfully with a fiddle ditty they often play while traveling. Kaylie rolls her eyes but hums along, settling down and starting a fire.

 

Later, contented and full ( _fortunately it doesn’t take much to feed a gnome, especially compared to a half-orc_ ), Kaylie watches wisps of smoke rising from the embers of their fire and taps her fingers on her thigh.

 

“What do you think is going on in Westruun?” she asks finally.

 

Dranzel shifts, leaning back on his hands and tilting his head as he considers it. “I’d say either the goliaths are dead or the adventurers are.”

 

Kaylie looks up and raises an eyebrow. “You think so?”

 

Dranzel chuckles. “That Vox Machina--they’re hero-types. A city besieged by goliaths _and_ a dragon is like catnip to nutters like them. They won’t be able to let it go.”

 

Kaylie frowns, and distantly realizes that her fingers have stopped tapping and are now digging into her leg.

 

“Kaylie,” Dranzel says, and when she looks up he winks. “Funny thing about heroes, though--the best ones always seem to pull through. Those assholes won’t know what hit them.”

 

“Which assholes, the goliaths or Vox Machina?” Kaylie shoots back, and Dranzel gives a great belly-laugh.

 

“I suppose we’ll see, won’t we?” he asks, eyes twinkling.

 

She chuckles, the corner of her mouth twisting up despite herself. “Right,” she says. “One way or another.”

 

“Whatever happens, we’ll make a damn good song out of it,” Dranzel says. “Which reminds me, I learned a new one from a nice young lass that came by today, thought you might like it--”

 

They spend the rest of the evening playing, soft and comfortable songs from their childhoods, until late into the night when they finally lay down their instruments and themselves to sleep.

 

\--

 

The first order of business, the next morning, is to track down that cleric. Kaylie hefts Dr. Dranzel’s arm over her shoulders and sets off in the direction she was told the day before. They don’t quite make it before a shouted voice cuts through the otherwise mostly subdued noise of the camp.

 

“Oi, Shorthalt!”

 

She freezes, because there’s only one person who would ever call her that, and besides she _knows_ that voice. She turns to look and there he is, Scanlan Shorthalt, standing a little ways down the street with his hands in his pockets and a grin on his face that’s brittle around the edges. Alive. _Here_.

 

“Hi.”

 

Before she’s even aware of what she’s doing, Kaylie has dropped Dranzel’s arm and run down the street. She grabs him in a hug without thinking, gripping him tightly and without softness. She feels him stiffen at first contact, hears his little surprised gasp and how he softens and brings his arms up to hold her back like she might disappear if he does but he can’t bring himself not to. There’s an acrid smell clinging to his clothes that brings to mind the half-melted portion of the collapsed temple back in Westruun.

 

Abruptly she comes back to herself and shoves him away, brushing off her clothes to cover up her self-consciousness.

 

“Well, I see you’ve survived,” she says airily, and he ducks his head, the edges of a laugh around his smile. “That’s good.”

 

“You too,” he replies, still with that grin on his face like he doesn’t know how else to look at her. He has a focus in his gaze that she recognizes from their encounter in Westruun, this awestruck look in the back of his eyes, and he doesn’t look away even as he gestures to Dr. Dranzel with his head and asks, in a carefully casual tone, “How’s he?”

 

Kaylie shrugs and explains the foot infection, feeling a bit odd talking about such a relatively minor ( _as awful as it is to look at_ ) injury to someone who most likely fought a dragon in the past few days.

 

It’s then that she realizes Scanlan isn’t alone, as he gestures for his companion to take care of Dr. Dranzel. She’s another gnome, in heavy armor, with light hair and a scar across her face. Kaylie thinks she remembers her from Emon, but only in the vaguest sense; she was, at the time, rather focused on something else.

 

That something else gets her attention again with a light touch on her arm as the other gnome ( _she must be a cleric_ ) moves off to speak with Dranzel, and Kaylie looks back at Scanlan as he draws her a few steps away from their friends.

 

“I’m so happy that you’re alive and safe,” he begins, and there’s that odd earnestness in his voice that she’s somehow always surprised to hear. He’s still smiling, but it’s not that same manic smile he had in the temple in Westruun, high on adrenaline and pride, as they scared away the goliaths. It’s a little softer, with humor in the corners and a little nervous around the edges, like he’s not quite sure how it’ll be received.

 

Kaylie wonders if he’s afraid of her.

 

He continues on, “And I came a great distance… to do other things,” with a slight shake of his head as if dismissing the idea, “but mostly to see you, and I just wanted to… say a few things, before I go off to complete my mission, and, uh…”

 

The longer he speaks, the more the nerves seem to creep into his voice. Kaylie is beginning to suspect he may have rehearsed this little speech of his. He fidgets, glancing away and then zeroing back in on her, shoving his hands in his pockets and licking his lips, but he never loses his smile.

 

As he goes on, babbling about his place in her life and her place in his and Pike ( _there’s a light in his eyes as he talks about her, and Kaylie wonders if he ever looked at her mother like that before ruthlessly quashing the thought_ ), Kaylie has the dawning realization that he has no idea what the fuck he’s doing.

 

Here he is, having tracked her down to the middle of a refugee camp days away from where they last saw each other, clumsily laying all his cards on the table because he doesn’t know what else to do.

 

And Kaylie--softens. Because as alien as the concept of _family_ seems to be to him, Scanlan is trying, and he’s trying with an intensity and a sincerity that she never expected from him.

 

“I’m doing something very stupid now with my friends, we’re going to try to save the world,” he says with a slight gulp, like he can’t quite believe it, “and I didn’t know why, but now I know, and if we die doing it it will be for a good thing, and if we don’t I’ll find you, and I’ll be whatever kind of father you need me to be, one who’s close, and helpful--”

 

He seems ready to ramble on on that topic, but if he’s going to try this hard then fuck it, she might as well too, and she cuts him off with a raised finger. She takes a step forward and just for a moment, just a little, she lets her defenses down, lets him see that she _means_ it when she pins him with a look and says, “Don’t you die. You stay alive.”

 

“I don’t _intend_ to, but you know,” he starts, a little flustered, and Kaylie’s having none of that because if he wants to make this work so bad then he’s going to have to stick around to do it. He’s not allowed to try this hard, to make _her_ want to try as well, and then cut out on her because he went jumping down a dragon’s throat. “I was just inside a--”

 

She doesn’t care to find out just what the hell _that_ means and interrupts him, leaning forward slightly and jabbing her finger at him. “You’re _not._ Going. To die.”

 

He goes quiet but holds her eyes, so she continues, “You’re gonna go do your stupid world-saving mission, like you told me,” ( _and_ _she remembers Dranzel saying_ heroes _with a knowing grin_ ), “And you’re gonna come back. And we’re gonna have a lot to talk about.”

 

He looks down briefly, then nods. “All right.”

 

“All right? Can you do that for me?” And it’s a bit of a challenge, a test, because she’s never asked anything like this of him, to do something just for her sake, but it’s also a bit of a promise, a confirmation that there’s something between them that allows her to even ask.

 

She thinks he understands, because he gets an intensity in his gaze as he meets her eyes. And Kaylie wondered, a little, how someone can look at this odd, flustered, earnest little man and see the legendary hero she hears about in bars across Tal’Dorei. But she can glimpse the steel behind the flair, and she remembers his manic energy, how he turned from panic to plan in seconds, his cocky grin the night she first met him, and thinks she can see how, with a little distance, you might see someone worth singing about.

 

More seriously than she’s ever seen him, Scanlan nods and says, “I promise you,” and then, as if to convey the weight of his sincerity, says again, “I _promise_ you.”

 

Kaylie nods and straightens up. “I’ll hold you to that.”

 

The moment passes, and Scanlan speaks up again in a lighter tone and says, “Well, you do that same, all right? Stay safe.” His smile grows slightly as he adds, “I got you a present.”

 

Kaylie furrows her brow because what in the hell could he have possibly gotten in all this chaos when he reaches into a pouch on his hip and says, “It’s a ring.”

 

He holds it up and she cocks her head. He holds it out to her and says, “It’s a beautiful ring because you’re a beautiful girl, and I’d like you to keep it.”

 

She takes it and looks it over, perplexed. It is a beautiful ring; finely made and obviously expensive, and she glances over at where Pike ( _who Scanlan described just moments ago as his soulmate, the dramatic bastard_ ) is still talking to Dranzel and wonders if maybe there’s more to the story he’s not telling her.

 

The corner of her mouth tilts up without her full permission and she raises an eyebrow as she asks, “Are you sure this wasn’t for someone else?”

 

Scanlan, his smile softening but his eyes with that same odd intensity, shakes his head and promises, “No. Never.”

 

Kaylie accepts his answer silently and slides the ring onto her finger as he continues.

 

“And you’re also strong, and you’ll need this sword,” he says, unhooking a sheath from his belt and holding it out to her. “This sword has killed a king, which makes it almost worthy enough for you, and I hope that it keeps you safe until I can see you again.”

 

Kaylie takes the sword and considers it. She’s no master of swords, though she can handle a blade as well as or better than most, but she’s almost certain it’s magical; it must be--she doubts adventurers of Vox Machina’s ilk even carry mundane weapons.

 

She looks at the blade in her hand and the ring on her finger and shakes her head. She didn’t know what her next encounter with Scanlan would be like, but she wasn’t expecting… this. She wasn’t expecting him to seek her out, to bring gifts and try so desperately to prove his sincerity.

 

“I… I don’t know what to say,” she admits, looking back up at him. “... I’ll start with thank you.”

 

And how’s that for something she never thought she’d say, _thank you_ to Scanlan Shorthalt, but she wants to tell him that she understands, she wants him to know that she’s ready to try, too, and for all she’s a bard she didn’t come to this conversation prepared and with her hands full of his gifts a _thank you_ is all she has to offer.

 

She chuckles a little to herself as she hooks the sword to her belt, just thinking about the horror she would feel just a few months ago if she’d been told that in the future she’d be telling her father to stay alive and sincerely thanking him.

 

She smiles as she looks back up at him, a little softer than before. “Well,” she says, “I feel pretty well protected.”

 

Scanlan nods. “Okay,” he says, and he still looks serious. “Get out of here, if you can. Try to make your way to Vasselheim. There’s three more dragons, and,” he smiles again, humor creeping back into his face, “it’ll be a while before I kill them all.”

 

“I don’t know, you’ve done quite a bit of work in even just these past few weeks,” Kaylie says, grinning, and it feels… nice, to joke with him, something else she wouldn’t have expected. She shakes her head slightly. “Um… Vasselheim. I’ll talk it over with the doctor. See what he’s interested in.”

 

Scanlan nods. “Okay.”

 

Kaylie mirrors him, then brings her finger up again, pointing at him with his ring now sitting on her hand, reflecting the sunlight. “You promised.”

 

“Gnome’s honor,” he says with a slight smile.

 

She chuckles to herself, nodding, then impulsively grabs his shirt front and pulls him down to press her lips briefly to his forehead. Immediately, she shoves him away again, snorting. “Now get out of my fuckin’ face.”

 

She spins on her heel to hide her grin as he laughs and walks back towards Dr. Dranzel, whose foot seems back to normal.

 

“All right Pike, I’m done!” Scanlan calls out from behind Kaylie and Dranzel immediately claps Pike on the back.

 

“Ah, but she’s not done!” he shoots back, and good lord, the man is shameless. Kaylie shakes her head as Pike ever-so-politely declines his invitation to join the troupe.

 

“Where are you headed to?” she asks, and Dranzel shrugs.

 

“I dunno, I figure we can… based on word around here, folks are headed back to Westruun, they probably need some cheering up on the road, and… from there, who knows?” He looks thoughtful, frowning slightly as he looks off into the distance. “Actually, I’ve been thinking… I’ve never been to Marquet before…”

 

Kaylie pipes up, avoiding Scanlan’s eyes as she ambles up to Dranzel’s side and crosses her arms. “Eh, let’s have a talk. I’m feeling a bit of religion coming on. Perhaps we should… look further west. Northwest. Vasselheim.”

 

It never pays to be subtle with the doctor.

 

She adds, “Not a lot of music in those parts. Willing to pay for that, I assume.”

 

Dranzel frowns, wrinkling his nose. “Vasselheim? It’s cold there, isn’t it?” He looks distinctly unenthused about the idea, but Kaylie knows he won’t turn her down. She smirks as he nods and says, “Let’s get some furs.”

 

As he makes to walk off ( _and thank goodness he doesn’t need any more assistance, the man weighs a ton_ ), Pike steps forward and offers her hand.

 

Kaylie looks down at it, then back up at its owner as she tentatively takes it.

 

Her gaze is immediately drawn to the scar that cuts through her eye, disfiguring one side of her face, but despite it Pike is far from ugly. Kaylie’s immediate gut reaction is to resent this woman who her father is so enamored with, but she has an air of kindness about her that makes disliking her, even so soon after meeting her, nigh impossible. Nevertheless, Kaylie looks at her warily. She knows very little about Scanlan’s party-mates, but this one seems… important.

 

“I’ve heard many lovely things about you,” Pike says sweetly.

 

Kaylie nods slowly. “As I’ve heard of you,” she responds in a neutral voice. She glances out of the corner of her eye at Scanlan, then leans in closer, because if anyone has the power to make sure he keeps his promise it’s Pike, who he speaks of so highly and with such wonder.

 

“He made a promise,” she says, low and serious, pointing at Scanlan as if there were any doubt who she’s be referring to.

 

Pike smiles and Kaylie can see that she understands. “I’ll make sure that he keeps it,” she says.

 

Kaylie nods slightly, satisfied, and gives her a soft, “Thank you,” before leaning back and, with one last glance at her father, turns to follow Dr. Dranzel down the street.

 

Once she catches up to him, he looks down at her and raises an eyebrow.

 

“Well, that’s one thing off our to-do list; too bad that Pike didn’t want to stick around. I tell you, adventurers.” He shakes his head.

 

Kaylie shrugs. “I doubt she could play, anyways, and we’ve already got Samson.”

 

“Ah, I suppose you’re right,” Dranzel says easily, with a wave of his hand. “Speaking of Samson, how about we go and find the rest of my good-for-nothing crew?”

 

Kaylie smiles. She may have had an ulterior motive for joining the troupe, but after six months of travel she’s grown genuinely fond of them; it’ll be good to see the lot of them again.

 

“I heard a rumor about a bunch of noisy assholes starting up a party across town,” she says, gesturing with her head.

 

Dranzel laughs. “Sounds like the right group! Let’s go, then.”

 

Kaylie gives him a small salute then leads the way down the road.

 

\--

 

It’s well into the afternoon by the time they hear the music. It’s audible all the way down the street, lute-playing and a familiar voice drifting through the air above the sounds of laughter. Kaylie ducks in between the gathered crowd as Dranzel simply pushes his way through, and before she can even reach open space she hears Zedd’s voice raise in a shout,

 

“Oi, look! It’s the Doctor!”

 

Kaylie finally pushes free and comes upon a section of the road filled with people dancing, though they stop and turn to look at the yell. Off to the side Kent continues plucking at his lute with a grin on his face, Esilmere singing beside him. Zedd is twirling through the crowd, surprisingly nimble for his size.

 

Dranzel’s voice booms jovially out from the crowd, “Figures you lot’d be causing a ruckus!”

 

Kent laughs as he plays. “Well come join us, then! Took you long enough to get here!”

 

Kaylie feels a touch on her shoulder and turns to see Samson smiling at her. Grinning, she slings an arm around his shoulder. She’s about to ask him how things have been going when Kent calls out again, “You too, Kaylie, I see you skulking over there!”

 

She rolls her eyes but moves over to join him alongside Dr. Dranzel, giving Samson a pat on the shoulder as she goes. She pulls out her flute and gives Kent a sarcastic bow. He grins and Esilmere winks at her, never pausing in her song.

 

She puts her flute to her lips and starts to play, and for a while she forgets about Scanlan and his promise and everything but the music.

 

\--

 

Eventually, the sun goes down, and the troupe winds down their performance. Without the music the crowd disperses, though several stop to chat as they go, many expressing sincere thanks for the cheer in these difficult times.

 

The troupe leads them back to their own campsite, and they settle around a fire to catch up and plan their next move.

 

“Westruun’s free of goliaths and dragons, so these people are gonna start heading back there real soon,” Dranzel says, gesturing broadly to the surrounding camp. “We can go with them, keep their spirits up for the walk back, and then go from there.”

 

“Where do we go from there?” Esilmere asks. “There’s still dragons about, we don’t know where they are. Everyone around here has a different story.”

 

“They’re not in Vasselheim,” Kaylie says immediately.

 

The half-elf woman raises an eyebrow at her. “How d’you know that, then?”

 

She shrugs. “I have my sources.”

 

That gets her skeptical looks from the rest of the troupe, but Dranzel cuts in and says, “Aye, and I trust ‘em too. Vasselheim is a good next step. Not many musicians out there--we can bring some life into that cultural wasteland. And get paid a fair amount for it, too.”

 

“Well, wherever there’s money and no dragons is good with me,” Kent puts in, crossing his arms behind his head. “When do we head out?”

 

Dranzel rubs his chin as he considers, finally saying, “Well, I reckon it’ll take a few days for everyone to get the supplies they need and get organized. We can leave with them, get our bearings in Westruun, and set out from there. Until then, we hang around camp, help out where we can, and keep everyone’s spirits up.”

 

There are murmurs of assent, and the conversation moves on to exchanging stories of questionable plausibility. Kaylie mostly sits it out, contributing the occasional call of bullshit or snarky remark but spending most of the time staring into the fire, twisting the ring around her finger.

 

Finally, when the fire and conversation have died down, the troupe separates to go to their bedrolls. As Dranzel passes her, Kaylie jumps up and taps his arm.

 

“Ah, doctor,” she says.

 

Dranzel turns and raises an eyebrow. “Yes, Kaylie? What is it?”

 

“If we’re going to be in Kymal for a few more days, there’s some business I’d like to attend to a little ways out of town.”

 

He blinks, but shrugs. “All right, your business is yours. Would you like some company for the road?”

 

Kaylie hesitates for a moment, then shakes her head. “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’d like to take care of this on my own.”

 

Dranzel waves a hand and says, “Well, whatever you want. Just make sure to get back before we head out, eh? Don’t want to have to track you down like we did with these lazy lumps!”

 

Kaylie smiles and gives him a short nod. “Don’t worry, doctor. I’ll be here. Good night.”

 

He drops a hand on her shoulder in a heavy pat and gives her a warm, “Good night, Kaylie,” before going off towards his bedroll.

 

Kaylie stands there just a moment more, twisting the ring on her finger, then goes to her own.

 

\--

 

She leaves at dawn the next morning, before the rest of the troupe has even begun stirring, and sets out on a familiar, lightly-traveled road leading out of the city.

 

It’s not a long walk compared to others they’ve taken; half a day, at most. She comes across the first farms a few hours in, and reaches the little town by the time the sun is high in the sky. It doesn’t have a proper name of its own; its residents usually say they’re from Kymal, whose walls are still visible over the flat plains on the horizon. There aren’t enough people here for it to have its own name.

 

Kaylie only cares about one of them.

 

It’s a small house on the edge of town, much smaller than most of the others. Too small, really, for the comparatively gigantic human locals to fit comfortably inside. But Kaylie had always seen that as an advantage.

 

It was safer that way.

 

She stands for just a moment in front of the door, keenly aware of the weight of the sword on her hip and the ring on her finger, then, taking a deep breath, she knocks.

 

There’s silence for a long moment, and Kaylie is considering knocking again when there’s a rustling noise and a voice barks out, “Who’s there?! If you’re here to loot, I’ll have you know I’m armed!”

 

The corner of her lips twitch up into a reflexive smile and she calls out in response, “Well, if that’s the sort of welcome I get, I suppose I could just come back some other time.”

 

There’s a pause, then a soft _thud_ from within followed by the sounds of hurried unlocking before the door swings inward to reveal a slender, golden-haired gnome woman with an almost comical expression of surprise on her face that rapidly shifts to relief and joy as she takes in the sight of Kaylie standing there, hands on her hips and a smile on her face.

 

“Kaylie,” Sybil gasps.

 

“Hi, Mama.”

 

With many welcoming noises and fluttering hand motions, Sybil ushers Kaylie inside and closes and locks the door behind her. As she steps in and looks around, Kaylie nearly trips over a broom on the floor just behind her mother. She raises an eyebrow and inclines her head towards it.

 

“Is that what you were ‘armed’ with, mother?” she asks, a laugh creeping into her voice at the mental image of her mother challenging strangers with a broom and a fierce expression.

 

Sybil scoffs and waves her hand imperiously. “Well, we can’t all be great spellcasters, my dear. Us little people have to protect ourselves somehow.” Her face softens and she holds out her arms. “Now come and greet your mother properly, young lady.”

 

Kaylie doesn’t bother to feel self-conscious about how she rushes into her mother’s arms. She clings to her tightly, burying her face in her shoulder, and with Sybil holding her just as tightly, feels like she can breathe for the first time since the shadow of Umbrasyl passed over them that day on the road.

 

A few tears squeeze out from behind tightly shut eyelids, and when she finally steps back she sees them reflected in her mother’s glistening eyes as Sybil reaches up and takes Kaylie’s face in her hands.

 

“Look at you,” she says softly. “My beautiful girl. Look how you’ve grown.”

 

Kaylie just smiles and leans into her mother’s touch. Sybil has the long, calloused fingers of a weaver; the same ones that Kaylie shares with Scanlan.

 

The thought of her father is a sobering one, and Kaylie lays one hand over her mother’s. “I have a lot to talk to you about, Mama,” she says.

 

Sybil sniffs and drops her hands, brushing them off absently on her skirts. “I daresay you do! You go off to bard college and don’t come visit your poor mother until dragons are descending from the heavens to ravage the countryside! Children these days have no respect for their elders.” She shoos Kaylie over towards the small kitchen area in the corner of the little, one-room house. “Go and set the table and we’ll have lunch, and you can tell me all about what you’ve been up to. Get!”

 

Kaylie laughs and hops to it. A quick glance around shows that despite the intervening years, the house is just as she remembers it, from the half-drawn curtain closing off their beds to the old loom resting in the corner to the ancient rug covering the floor. She quickly finds that even the cupboards are organized the same way and makes short work of setting the table for a meal. Sybil joins her, ladling stew from a pot on the small wood stove and pulling half a loaf of bread down from a shelf.

 

Kaylie can’t help but watch her mother bustle about the kitchen. It’s been so long since she last saw her, bidding her farewell and leaving for the College of the White Duke with nothing but clothes, a simple wooden flute, and a fierce determination to get retribution for the tired grief behind her mother’s bright eyes.

 

Sybil still wears her hair long. It falls in neat curls past her shoulders and nearly shines in the midday sunlight coming through the windows. There are gray hairs at her temples and the lines around her bright blue eyes from long days of squinting at her loom and broad, easy smiles are deeper than Kaylie remembers.

 

Kaylie has always looked very little like her mother. When she was very young, she liked to dream about the mysterious father from whom she received her straight brown hair and dark eyes. Later, when she had learned the truth about Scanlan, she had longed for her mother’s fair features, and stared hard at her reflection in the search for what she received from her mother and cursing the lingering influence of her father.

 

She is pulled from her thoughts by Sybil sitting down across from her, picking her up spoon and jabbing it at Kaylie.

 

“Now tell me,” she says, “where have you been these past few years?”

 

So Kaylie tells her.

 

She talks about meeting Dr. Dranzel and the rest of the troupe, about traveling all across Tal’Dorei, performing and mastering not only the skills of music and magic that she learned at the college but also her skills with a knife, with her fists, and with her quick fingers. They laugh at old stories and bad jokes and Kaylie’s purposefully terrible impressions of her bandmates until the food is gone and Kaylie falls suddenly silent, looking down at her bowl and sobering as she approaches the present in her tale.

 

“What is it?” Sybil asks, immediately noticing something is off.

 

Kaylie sets down her spoon and drops her hands in her lap. She stares at them for a long moment, then looks up and meets her mother’s concerned eyes.

 

“I met Scanlan,” she says, her voice strained despite her attempt at careful neutrality.

 

Sybil gasps, her eyes going wide. “You--”

 

“I found him, Mama,” Kaylie continues in a rush, looking down at her hands. “It took a long time, but I found him in Emon a few weeks ago and I--” her voice abruptly cuts off and she has to swallow before she can continue. “I was going to kill him.”

 

She looks up at Sybil’s sharp intake of breath, meeting her gaze again. “I wanted to make him pay for what he did to you. He didn’t know who I was, so I tricked him into bringing me up to his room and then I told him, I told him who I was and why I was there and I drew my sword and I--I put it up to his chest and he just stood there and he was going to _let_ me, he told me he would let me if I wanted, and--” her voice breaks again and Kaylie notes distantly that her vision is getting blurry. She swipes at her face with her sleeve and it comes away damp. She blinks and finds that Sybil has come around to her side of the table and is reaching for her. She leans into her mother, closing her eyes and clutching at her sleeve as Sybil strokes her hair.

 

“I couldn’t do it, Mama,” she whispers. “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t.”

 

It feels like a dam has broken, here in this quiet little house in arms of her mother, and all the confused and conflicting emotions that have been roiling around inside Kaylie since she first laid eyes on Scanlan in that tavern in Emon--since she first took up her mission of vengeance, even, all that time ago--all come pouring out at once, and she lets herself cry, finally, cry for the life she missed out on and for her mother’s pain and for the revenge she gave up and for her fear that she made the wrong choice, that letting Scanlan in is only going to hurt her the way it hurt her mother, that he’ll leave her too, one way or another. It all comes out in hiccuping sobs and salty tears that soak her mother’s dress and her fingers hurt from clamping so tightly onto her sleeve, like she used to as a little girl walking beside her to the city.

 

“Oh, Kaylie,” Sybil sighs, holding her close. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

 

She presses a kiss to the top of Kaylie’s head, and Kaylie rests against her for a few long moments, soaking in her mother’s comforting presence until finally her eyes are drier and her breath has evened out. She feels scraped clean, raw and new inside and out as she pulls back enough to meet her mother’s eyes. Sybil smiles gently at her, wiping her thumb through the tear tracks on her cheek.

 

“My lovely, strong girl,” she murmurs, and Kaylie squeezes her wrist. “I’m so proud of you.”

 

She leans down and kisses Kaylie’s forehead. “It’s so much harder to forgive those who have wronged you. I’m glad you didn’t kill him.”

 

Kaylie smiles weakly. “I think I might be, too.”

 

“Good.” Sybil pats her cheek, then steps away briefly to pull her chair over. She sits back down, now knee-to-knee with Kaylie, and takes her hands in her own. “Now. What happened after that?”

 

Hesitantly at first, but with her voice getting stronger with each moment, Kaylie describes the troupe’s journey to Westruun, the days spent holed up in the broken temple, and Scanlan’s surprised reappearance and their subsequent escape.

 

“I saw him again just yesterday, in Kymal,” she says, finally. “They killed the dragon, him and his friends, and they’re off to kill more. The troupe and I were going to head towards Vasselheim soon--I wanted to see you first.”

 

“Well! I’m glad to hear you haven’t forgotten me in all your adventures, at least,” Sybil says brightly, squeezing Kaylie’s hands. “Vasselheim! That’s quite a ways away. You will be coming _back_ , won’t you?”

 

“Aye, of course. As soon as the dragons are done with.” Kaylie pauses, then adds quickly, “Would you like to come with us, mother? You’ll be safer in Vasselheim.”

 

Sybil laughs. “Me, come journeying with you across the sea to Vasselheim? No, I don’t think so. No pesky dragon is going to drive this old bird from her nest. I’m staying put right here, and if they have a problem with it they can answer to me directly. But it sounds like they have other things to consider now--killing dragons!” She shakes her head disbelievingly, chuckling to herself. “Who would have thought that old bastard had it in him. I guess he really was meant for greater things.”

 

Kaylie frowns and squeezes her hands. “Mama, what he did to you--”

 

Sybil reaches out and pats her knee. “Kaylie, when I met Scanlan Shorthalt, I was young and stupid enough to fall for a charming stranger, and he was just as young, even stupider, and a coward besides. The closer we got, the more scared he was, and eventually he ran off. Even if he hadn’t--he wasn’t ready to be a father. Perhaps he would have grown up some if he’d stayed, or perhaps he needed to leave for it to happen, but it doesn’t matter now.” She smiles, and gets a far-off look in her eyes. “What happened, happened. I don’t regret meeting him, or loving him. I think a part of me will always be a little bit in love with the bard who swept me off my feet, even as I curse his name. And he gave me the greatest gift anyone ever could--he gave me you.”

 

Kaylie huffs, and Sybil swats her leg, focusing back on her with a stern expression. “Don’t laugh at your mother, young lady. I am being entirely serious.”

 

“Sorry, Mama,” Kaylie says, mildly chastened but with an amused grin fixed on her face.

 

Sybil’s face softens, then gets more serious. “Whatever happens next is your decision. If you decide you never want to see him again, you don’t have to. And if you want to pursue a relationship with your father, that is your right, and I will stand behind you the whole way. And if he puts a foot out of line, I will gladly beat him over the head with a broom.”

 

Kaylie laughs, and Sybil pats her knee again before getting to her feet and straightening her skirts.

 

“Now, if you want to get back to Kymal by nightfall, you should go--and I expect another visit before the year is up this time!”

 

Kaylie stands as well, moving automatically to help clear the table of their meal. “Of course, mother. As soon as it’s safe to return to Tal’Dorei, I’ll visit. Try not to fight the dragons yourself.”

 

Sybil scoffs. “As if they’re brave enough to face me! Did you know, someone tried to break in, after the attack--I suppose they thought I had fled, and were looking for loot. I gave them a right whacking and they ran right off! Haven’t had any trouble since, either.”

 

Kaylie laughs, but can’t help but feel a pang at the thought of her mother alone in the house without even a weapon to protect herself. She briefly considers giving her a sword--but Sybil never learned to use one, and untrained she could do more damage to herself than a potential attacker. “Stay safe, mother,” she says instead, picking up the fallen broom and laying it against the wall by the door.

 

“Oh, I always do. Now you promise me that you will, too. You come back to me in one piece, Kaylie,” Sybil says sternly.

 

Kaylie turns back to her and says, “I promise,” and wonders if this is how Scanlan felt making his promise, this bone-deep knowledge that no matter what comes someone is waiting and relying on her to make it out, to make it back.

 

She hopes so. She hopes it makes him more inclined to keep it.

 

She lingers in the doorway, looking around the house one last time, suddenly loathe to leave her childhood home and refuge, until Sybil pokes her in the chest.

 

“No use hanging around here when you have adventures awaiting you, now. Greatness waits for no one, Kaylie.”

 

Kaylie smiles and leans forward to kiss her mother’s cheek. “Good-bye, Mama. I love you.”

 

“Good-bye, Kaylie. You keep making your mother proud.”

 

With a lingering surge of love for this brilliant woman standing in the small doorway like a queen in her castle and a last wave over her shoulder, Kaylie sets out for the trek back to Kymal.

 

\--

 

She makes it back to Kymal just in time to slip in beside Esilmere around their campfire, where Zedd is staring intently at some manner of bird hanging on a makeshift spit. Aside from a nod of greeting and a slap on the back from Dr. Dranzel, no one makes much out of the fact that she’d been gone all day without so much as a see-you-later. She’s grateful--in all the time she’d been traveling with the troupe, she hadn’t spoken much about her mother. She’d always held Sybil and their small home jealously close to her heart, where the cold world outside their hearth couldn’t touch it.

 

No one bothers to ask where she went, rather continuing the conversation--which after a moment of listening Kaylie realizes is an argument over the next step of the journey, after a planned brief stop in Westruun to escort the refugees.

 

“We don’t know what ports are even _intact_ , much less still open for business,” Kent says, drumming his fingers on his lute. “Obviously we can’t go to Emon, but for all we know, the whole coast is dragon chow.”

 

“The smaller cities are more likely to be intact,” Esilmere points out. “They aren’t nearly as appealing as status symbols.”

 

“But at a small port, we’re way less likely to find a ship capable of crossing the Ozmit Sea,” Kent shoots back. “Besides, if anyone on the continent had a ship, they probably left as soon as they heard the news, and who the hell would be sailing _to_ Tal’Dorei?”

 

“What are you trying to say, Kent?” Dranzel asks with a frown, leaning down towards the comparatively tiny halfling man.

 

Kent throws his hands up. “I’m saying we need to consider the fact that we might not have a way to _get_ to Vasselheim! Unless any of you lot happen to have a super powerful wizard tucked into your back pocket who can teleport us there!”

 

Dranzel hums low in his throat, and shoots Kaylie a look out of the corner of his eye, one eyebrow raised slightly.

 

She shrugs. She never bothered to learn about the rest of Vox Machina, and even if they do have the capacity to teleport to Vasselheim (and she wouldn’t put it past them), they’re probably long gone by now, off on their mission to kill the rest of the dragons.

 

“I hate to agree with Kent as much as anyone,” Esilmere says, ignoring Kent’s offended ‘hey!’, “but he has a point. There are a half-dozen small port cities I can think of along the western coast, but there’s no guarantee we’ll find what we need there--and I don’t know about you, but I’d prefer not to spend much time on that side of the continent. You never know when the dragon in Emon might get _bored_.” She finishes with a dark look around the circle, and a shiver passes down Kaylie’s back, one she can see echoed in her compatriots.

 

“All right, then,” she pipes up. “We need a new plan. Either we find a wizard, or we find a new destination. Where do we find a wizard?”

 

“If they were studying on this continent, they were probably in Emon or Westruun,” Esilmere begins thoughtfully, “so they either fled or died--anyone of much power is probably on another continent or traveling about the wilderness with the rest of the refugees, unless they made it to another city, and we don’t know which ones are still standing.”

 

“Kraghammer is probably okay,” Kent says, taking a stick and beginning to sketch a rough map of Tal’Dorei in the ground. He scratches out an ‘X’ where Emon is--or was--as well as Westruun. He hovers it above other areas of the continent--Kaylie recognized Whitestone, Stillben, and Wrens far to the south--then makes an irritated clucking sound and swings the stick around to tap his chin. “What we need is more information. We need to know where the dragons are, and where the people went, and we need to find out without stumbling ass-first into an inferno.”

 

Kaylie hums in agreement. “You know I’m always up for a scrap, but if I’m going to fight a fuckin’ dragon, I’d at least like to know beforehand.”

 

The troupe falls silent for a moment, staring at Kent’s map.

 

Then Dr. Dranzel begins to chuckle.

 

Five heads immediately shoot up to stare at him with expressions ranging from suspicious to bewildered. Dranzel ignores them, throwing his head back as the chuckle grows into a full belly laugh.

 

Kaylie tolerates it for a few seconds before throwing her hands up in exasperation. “All right, Doctor, shut the hell up and tell us what it is that’s so fuckin’ funny!”

 

Dranzel waves a hand at her and she glares at him as his laughter subsides and he wipes a tear from his eye. He leans forward, propping his forearms on his knees and looking around the circle with a wide grin on his face and a twinkle in his eye.

 

“I know _exactly_ where we can get information.”

 

\--

 

It takes three days to get there, and about two and a half to wheedle out of Dr. Dranzel where _exactly_ they’re going.

 

When she finally finds out, Kaylie refuses to talk to him for four hours.

 

The Treble Chef is not an imposing building. Large, sure, especially for a tavern, but low to the ground, made of weathered wood with a simple sign adorned with a treble clef hanging above the door and no other ornamentation. Half a day’s journey from the nearest tiny village, Kaylie is convinced it has no business at all getting _any_ clientele aside from the desperate, let alone being apparently the most popular destination for any bard worth their salt on the entire continent.

 

It is incredibly frustrating to know that Dr. Dranzel has not been lying this entire time, and his increasingly good mood (and increasingly loud sarcastic jabs at “ _runty little know-it-alls_ ”) as they approach the tavern has the inverse effect on Kaylie, so that by the time the troupe has made it to the door she’s just about ready for a large drink and a good brawl--and maybe later, once she’s good and drunk, a dragon attack.

 

Dranzel halts them before they enter and gives them all such a stern look that Kaylie is tempted to stick her tongue out at him just on principle.

 

“Remember, we’re here to get information,” he begins, looking around at all of them before landing square on Kaylie. “So don’t start any trouble.”

 

Kaylie holds his gaze long enough for him to frown and start to say something else, clearly anticipating _something_ , before slipping right between his legs and throwing the door to the tavern open hard enough for the slam as it hits the wall to echo through the whole building.

 

The inside of the Treble Chef seems to be mostly one large, well-lit room, filled with long tables full of people of all descriptions--all of whom seem to be staring right at her. A bar manned by a tiefling woman takes up about half of the back wall, and the rest is covered with racks of instruments. Kaylie takes it all in in the few seconds it takes for her to leap up on top of the nearest table, only avoiding kicking over someone’s drink when they yank it back with a yelp.

 

“Hey!” she bellows out, putting her hands on her hips and puffing up her chest. “My name is Kaylie, and I’m the greatest bard this side of the Ozmit Sea--and probably the other, but I haven’t been yet to thrash the competition! I’ve yet to find anyone who could so much as challenge me, and I’ll take on anyone here with any instrument they care to name!”

 

There’s a long, unimpressed silence, as the patrons of the Treble Chef take in the small gnome perched on a table like a queen in her court. Kaylie, unabashed, gives them a brazen smile and taps her foot. She can imagine the look on Dranzel’s face and for a moment she’s drunk on it, on the exhilaration of all the eyes in the room on her, soaking up their attention and letting their dismissal roll off her shoulders. Leave the dragons to the heroes and the idiots, _this_ is her arena.

 

“Well?” she calls out, when no one immediately responds. “I thought this bar served the best bards around. I didn’t know it also served cowards!”

 

Finally, a silver dragonborn in the back of the room heaves themselves to their feet and yells in an irritated voice, “If it’ll shut you up, girlie, I’ll take you on.”

 

A few patrons laugh and most of the others go back to their drinks and conversations as the dragonborn leisurely makes their way to the front of the room. Only a few--especially those whose table she has taken over--keep an eye on the imminent competition. Out of the corner of her eye, Kaylie sees Dr. Dranzel and the rest of the troupe skirt around to find seats. She catches Dranzel’s eye, winks, and gets a half-hearted glare in return.

 

The dragonborn reaches Kaylie, flute held in one claw, and she gestures for them to go first. With a mocking replica of a gracious gesture, they lift their flute and begin to play.

 

Kaylie has to admit: they’re good. She doesn’t recognize the song, but the style is reminiscent of the traditional plains songs students at the college liked to play to compete with each other: a calm and soothing melody, but deceptively complicated, and relying on real skill to produce accurately.

 

When they’re done and give the handful of watching patrons a small bow, there’s a smattering of applause. Kaylie joins in for a few seconds before whipping out her flute and brandishing it above her head like a weapon. When the applause dies down and the dragonborn turns to her with an expectant look, she brings it to her lips, thinks of dragons, and begins to play.

 

It takes three increasingly frustrated songs, each drawing more attention from the surrounding tables, before the dragonborn concedes defeat and a human woman steps up to take their place.

 

It takes six more before the rest of the tavern gives up on pretending to ignore the competition.

 

It takes ten more songs, four challengers, two instrument changes, and a magic display before the room is filled with cheering and booing as the crowd picks favorites.

 

By the time Kaylie has run out of people willing to play against her, the world outside has gone completely dark. Her fingertips are raw, her feet hurt, and her chest heaves with every breath but her face is sore from grinning and she has music and magic rushing through her blood. She’s on top of the world, untouchable, invincible, and if Thordak himself crashed through the roof she thinks she’d laugh.

 

She sweeps a final bow and hops down from the table, sauntering through the crowd towards the corner table where Dranzel has set himself up. She hauls herself up onto the bench across from him, pleased to see he has a drink waiting for her. She raises the mug--too big for her, but when has _that_ ever stopped her--in a half-mocking salute and starts to drain it.

 

In the back of her mind, she finds herself thinking, bemused and a little begrudging, _huh. It really is some damn good ale._

 

When she drops it down on the table, Dranzel is looking at her with an odd expression on his face, some mixture of affection and exasperation and something else as he shakes his head slowly.

 

“What?” Kaylie asks, still feeling a little belligerent as she wipes foam from her lip.

 

The corner of Dranzel’s lips twitch up and he chuckles. “You really are just like him, you know.”

 

Kaylie scowls and lifts her mug again. “You better be talking about the White fuckin’ Duke himself,” she grouses, hoping he’ll take a hint and drop it. It’s one thing to privately adjust her judgment of her father, another to speak about it with him and her mother, and something entirely different to casually discuss him in the middle of a bar with one of his old friends.

 

Dranzel, being the terrible person he is, does not take the hint. “Only a Shorthalt would walk in here and do what you just did--and only a Shorthalt could pull it off, might I add.”

 

Kaylie lowers her drink and takes a deep breath, looking down at her ale.

 

Well. Since he wasn’t going to drop it, she might as well make herself clear.

 

“My father,” she says, slowly and clearly, “is a bastard and a scoundrel, and the world would be better off without him.”

 

She looks up to see Dranzel without even the decency to look surprised, one eyebrow raised expectantly.

 

She sighs.

 

“And if he gets himself killed saving all our lives I will be _very_ upset with him.”

 

Dranzel laughs, leaning back and slamming one giant open hand down on the table. Kaylie rolls her eyes, her chest warm with the drink and affection for this ridiculous, terrible man.

 

“Kaylie Shorthalt,” he says, jabbing one large finger at her. “I dare say you have some scoundrel in you as well.”

 

_Kaylie Shorthalt._

 

Kaylie looks down at her drink and smiles.

 

“Dr. Dranzel,” she says, twirling the ring around her finger, “I dare say you may be right.”

**Author's Note:**

> so i started this fic... almost exactly a year ago, last january, and i always promised myself i would finish it. the idea began as 'kaylie starts a bar fight to deal with her emotions' and in the process of writing the intro to that fic, i ended up with this monster instead. it's still not quite what i wanted it to be (for one, i had intentions of completely rewriting the beginning to include all of emon, as well), but i really wanted to finish and publish it before the new campaign because i didnt want it to to just languish and die forgotten in my drive. so i decided to take it for what it is now, and release it into the world.
> 
> i could ramble on for ages abt this fic but basically...... i love my favorite daughter, kaylie shorthalt


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